The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.
William ShakespeareAway, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!
William ShakespeareI take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
William ShakespeareAnd yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
William Shakespeare